


35:  This Must Be the Place

by light_source



Series: High Heat [35]
Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Coming Out, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 07:35:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_source/pseuds/light_source
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>- There’s lot of lying gonna be involved here, B., says Tim, slowly, thinking of the story he’ll have to manufacture to get out of afternoon practice today.- Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?</p>
            </blockquote>





	35:  This Must Be the Place

**September 2005  
Seattle**

The waiting lanes at the Fauntleroy terminal are all akimbo because the ferry guys have just finished extracting a stalled car from the middle lane. Tim’s on the bench outside the terminal sucking down the last of his vending-machine coke. Across the sound, the tops of the mountains are sunk under a cloud layer above the rolling black horizon of Douglas fir.

The ferry from Southworth angles slowly towards its dock, maneuvering through the stockade of bumpered pylons, the blast from its horn scattering the seagulls that are trailing its wake.

When the 650 area code had flashed on his cell, Tim had figured it’d be just another one of their couple-times-a-year calls. He and Brandon would catch up, brag about how great they were doing and how much hardware they were stockpiling, talk sideways at each other like they always did. Brandon’d fill him in on how his summer pro job at Torrey Pines had worked out, and he’d want to know what happened in Cape Cod, where Tim’d played summer ball for the Harwich Mariners.

Not exactly.

//

\- Bremerton? Tim’d said. - What’re you doing in Bremerton?

Bremerton’s only thirty miles west of Seattle, but it’s across Puget Sound, on the Olympic Peninsula, so it’s an almost two-hour drive from UW, the same amount of time whether you drive down-and-around or you take the ferry.

\- The team, says Brandon. - We’re here for the Kikkor, he explains. - At Gold Mountain. It’s the big fall invitational, everybody’s here, the whole PAC-10. Even Li Chen and them. Texas A&M. And BYU - I fuckin’ _hate_ those guys. It’s a big deal - team and individual. They hafta get everybody in, so they’re using both courses, I’m on Cascade.

The connection gurgles with static for a moment and Brandon sounds like he’s underwater.

\- It’s only a couple days, he says, - we’re back in the Bay Area Wednesday.

He concludes this like he’s making a speech, and then there’s that awkward pause like Tim’s supposed to say something.

What Tim hates about phones is that you can’t see the other guy’s face.

\- So when’ll you be over here? Tim asks, meaning Renton.

\- I’m not, says Brandon all of a sudden, and there’s another pause. - I was kind of wondering, Timmy, he says carefully, - if you got some time?

Tim’s quiet. He wants to see Brandon, but he’s got a lot on his plate this week, twice-a-day practices and his annual physical tomorrow and school starting on Wednesday, a 9:05 class he’ll have to get up for.

\- Can you meet me at the Fauntleroy ferry this afternoon? says Brandon. His voice sounds strange. - Just for an hour or so.

\- There’s lot of lying gonna be involved here, B., says Tim, slowly, thinking of the story he’ll have to manufacture to get out of afternoon practice today. - This is gonna cost you, you motherfucker. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?

It feels good to be back to their old selves, getting in each other’s faces.

But there’s another long pause before Brandon answers, and when he does, his voice sounds flat and featureless.

\- It wouldn’t have made a difference if I’d told you, he says, - you’d still have to lie. And I already gave my coach some preposterous bullshit story. Do me a favor, Timmy, he says, - Just be there, OK? The 3:10.

//

As they jaywalk the empty wait lanes on the way back to the terminal parking lot, Tim's already got his keys out, jingling in his hand, but when they get to the truck, Brandon just keeps walking, fast and stiff like he's a zombie or something, down the path to the beach. Tim has to trot to catch up with him.

The narrow sliver of beach is strewn with logs, smooth and grey from being keel-hauled through the sound, two tides a day. They're racked up against the tall beach grasses like a pile of picked-dry bones.

It's almost October and the days are getting short, but right now the sun's still hovering above the mountains, the light low and soft. Tim's kicked off his flip-flops and is enjoying the way the sand's burnishing the soles of his feet, his toes and heels cupping out a trail of tear-shaped hollows behind them.

\- I miss it, Timmy, Seattle, the beach, says Brandon over his shoulder to Tim, who's still behind him. - I been a couple times, the guys took me over to Half Moon Bay and Santa Cruz, but it's not the same. I miss water being everywhere and the way the water smells, and, this is the weirdest thing, the way you can always hear the crows in the trees here, even when you can't see 'em. What's up with that?

\- What's up with _you,_ B.? says Tim.

Tim'd had forty-five minutes in afternoon traffic to get really pissed off. He'd spent the time psyching himself up, blasting Lil Wayne doing 'Cash Money Millionaires,' planning how he was gonna rip Brandon a new one for showing up out of nowhere and expecting him to drop everything.

Tim's not mad anymore. He's worried.

Brandon's still a few steps ahead of him, Nikes dangling from one finger each, singing under his breath, which is not good, because (Tim'd be the first to remind him) Brandon can't carry a tune.

\- I told my mom and dad, says Brandon suddenly, wheeling to face Tim, his eyes wide - and they told me not to come back. Home.

\- About what? says Tim.

\- About who I am, says Brandon. - What I am. Whatever you wanna call it. I hate that word gay - I think _faggot_ pretty much covers it. Good word, _faggot._ No ambiguity there.

- _Jesus, Brandon,_ says Tim, before he realizes it.

Brandon starts walking again, fast.

\- I had to, says Brandon, his voice whipped sideways by a gust of wind. - Not just because it's who I am. Coach Ray's been after me, every day of every week since we made the championship last spring. He wants us to take it to the limit this spring again, and then he thinks I should drop out of Stanford and go to Q school in the fall.

\- Here's the thing, Timmy. I found out he's been talking to my parents behind my back all summer, getting them on board.

\- The nickel didn't drop, he says, - till I was home for a couple days in August between San Diego and school, and they were acting weird, like they were holding back something big. Then the night before I was supposed to go back to school, they sat me down at the kitchen table and told me how proud they were of me, how Coach Ray was this incredible guy and he was gonna make it all happen for me. 

\- The thing was, Brandon continues, and then he stops. Tim doesn't look over, but he can tell from the way his voice is tight that he's close to tears. - The thing was, I'd already decided not to. The _ironic_ thing is that at this exact moment I'd been hoping to tell them I was gonna stay and get my degree so that I'd have something else, like my mom's always saying, to _fall back on._

He rolls his eyes.

\- School's made everything different, Brandon continues. - I've had to keep my grades up for my scholarship, and the weird thing is, I found out I like school.  I been doing stuff I never had time for in high school. There's a whole world out there, Timmy, people who don't give a shit about how you hit a ball, people who are doing stuff that _matters._

\- Problem is, I been doing sports ever since I was a tiny kid, full-time all the time. Swimming, and then I wasn't the right size for that, so golf. I never had a chance to think about anything else. I've had my head up the ass of golf for practically my whole life.   

Brandon clears his throat. Tim's looking at him now, his face frozen.

\- One thing I got clear on at Stanford, says Brandon, - is that I got nothing in common with most golfers. Most of 'em are just country-club white boys. Even if I did make the tour, I sure as hell don't want to spend the rest of my life with them, livin' in Florida so you don't have to pay state tax and voting Republican and buying some girl a rock and a house and a boat.

\- So the thing is, Brandon says, the words spilling out, - I wasn't planning to tell the whole thing to my mom and dad - just about staying in school. But they just fuckin' kept pushing. It was creepy, in a way. They had it all planned out: spring'd be my last quarter and then I'd do Q school in September. Repeat as necessary cause nobody gets it on the first try.

\- You're not gonna believe this, Timmy, he continues - they had me living at home to save money - like I could do that after being on my own all this time.

\- And you know what, Timmy? he says - he hasn't stopped shaking his head. - There was no way of talking 'em out of it.

\- Except telling 'em I'm a faggot, he says, smiling a little, cocking one dark eyebrow, - that was my stroke of brilliance, because it's true and it's a total deal-breaker. The crackers're always saying there ain't no such thing as an out faggot in the PGA, he says. - Or in my family, turns out.

He smiles like he's been practicing it for his tour card.

\- So I guess I'm, what, DFA'd? He swipes his nose on his sleeve and looks across at Tim. - The only thing I got left is that they can't take my scholarship away.

Tim's silent, taking it in. It's slower going now because the wet sand's sinking into puddles under their feet. He puts his arm around Brandon's shoulders and keeps it there, even though it's awkward, his fingers twisted in Brandon's shirt. He stretches out his stride till their steps rhyme.

The thread of beach cuts out abruptly at a cedar that's been upended by the tide, its roots still clotted with sand and muck.

\- C'mon, Tim says. When he cups his hand on Brandon's shoulder and turns him back around towards the parking lot, Brandon grins and shoves back, so Tim has to pantomime pushing him forward like he's jump-starting a dead car.

There's shiny streaks on Brandon's cheeks and a flush of color.

\- You're coming back with me tonight, says Tim.

//

The apartment Tim shares with three of his teammates looks like a cross between a seedy hotel lobby and a police-precinct waiting room. There's a threadbare matching sofa and loveseat, a glass-and-wood coffee table and a fake-oriental rug with cigarette burns on it. The dish half-full of Science Diet kibble near the sliding doors is for Rob's cat Darth, pure white and stone-deaf, who's around here someplace, probably under the couch. Two gym bags in the entryway compete with a stack of catchers' pads and and a couple pairs of toed-off cleats, some of them still crusted with grit.

The real money's gone into the wide-screen TV and the brand-new X-Box 360 bristling with wires. Everything in the room turns toward it like it's a blonde with a six-pack.

They're eating three-for-thirty-bucks pizza with his suitemates, trash-talking and doing bong hits during commercials, watching _Jackass: The Movie_ with the sound off. Will's lit two purple 'Huskies' candles his girlfriend gave him to kill the smell of dope smoke - Tim's never been clear on how this works - and they're competing to see who can hold the biggest hit the longest. Brandon's bullshitting the guys about Stanford and what it's like to live in California, and they're mocking him by calling it 'Leland Stanford _Junior_ University.'

And bragging about their exploits on and off the field.

Tim's laughing in all the right places, but he's quiet, watching. He's finding it hard to reconcile the Brandon in front of him, relaxed and funny and sparring easily with the guys, with the Brandon of this afternoon. He feels unsettled, burdened with something he can't figure out.

His oldest friend, Brandon is. They've been friends since fourth grade, when Brandon broke his ankle falling off his bike. For a couple of months, while he was on crutches, it was Tim's job to walk him to school every day, carry his stupid plastic lunch bag and his Turtles backpack.

The bullshitting and the bong hits help, the beer helps, the pizza helps - Tim's always starving these days, and always losing weight - but what he's waiting for is later.

//

 _Bow down to Washington_ is the sound of Sam and Will howling tuneless in the kitchen, drunk,

_Leather lungs together  
with a rah rah rah  
And o'er the land  
our loyal band_

Tim's room is about the size of a kennel carrier, just wide enough for a single bed. The built-in formica desk is stacked with a pillar of brand-new textbooks, printer paper, a silver PowerBook.

Brandon's sitting on the edge of Tim's unmade bed, which slopes hollow down the center, and their eyes meet for a second before Tim slaps off the overhead light. The bed's pushed up against a tall narrow window, so when Brandon leans over and cranks the casement open, a hiss of soft wet air sweeps into the room, and outside there's the sound of leaves rustling heavy in the rain.

As their eyes adjust to the darkness, Tim sits down backward in the pressed-wood desk chair, facing Brandon on the bed. As the light from the AC adaptor on the floor shines both their faces faintly blue, he ducks his chin, suddenly at a loss.

\- What do you want me to say? he blurts.

Brandon smiles a little, shaking his head.

\- Nothing, he says, - you've always been good at nothing, Timmy.

His eyes come to rest on Tim's.

That old current of electricity's there that's from not knowing what's gonna happen - they can both feel it.

\- I mean it, Brandon continues, - that nothing's _good._ In a perfect universe there'd be nothing. The minute you start labeling stuff, it stops being itself. If that makes any sense.

It would, except that Tim's risen and slipped one leg up easily over the chair's back and plunked down next to Brandon on the bed, just close enough so their thighs and the edges of their arms are touching. The mattress is thin and slippery, and they both have to tilt forward, straight-backed and arms locked, to keep from falling backward.

A blast of wet-pavement-smelling air from the window stirs Brandon's hair, which has gotten long and unruly, curling at the nape of his neck in a way Tim hasn't really noticed before.

\- That flow of yours is so fuckin' lacrosse, says Tim, - or it'd be hockey, if it was wet.  Flow-fection, dude.

\- Flow-tastrophe, more like, says Brandon. - It's one more thing about me that's so not golf. Coach keeps telling me to get it cut, and I keep forgetting.

\- Don't, says Tim, smiling, - it's

But Brandon's slipped his hand around Tim's jaw and he's kissing him now, his lips tentative, like he's wondering, and Tim can feel his skin starting to hum, the warmth in him rising. He reaches over and weaves his fingers into that madhouse hair, soft but wiry-stubborn, and yes, it's wet at the nape.

\- Want me to sleep on the floor? Brandon whispers when he's not taking Tim's upper lip in his own, flicking it with his tongue so lightly that Tim's pressing into the  touch, wanting more.

\- Yeah, says Tim, - I think you better, _faggot,_ but you gotta take my clothes off first.

And then he can't talk, cause Brandon's tongue is doing things there aren't any words for.

//

The way everything's a disaster but works out perfectly is what he and Brandon are about, thinks Tim while he's watching Brandon slip out of his khakis, his hard cock pressing against his underwear in a way that makes Tim stop breathing for a second.

 _Oh, fuck, it's good,_ he says so many times that night, _just like that, B._

His room's a cell and the bed's a pit and his roommates are drunk and it's pouring outside - the golf tournament'll be delayed - and it's all _perfect._

Think about it.

The room's tiny, but it's got walls and a lock, and what else do they need?

The trench in the flabby mattress holds them so that they can't not be touching, their bare bodies slippery and hot, the twisted grey sheets kicked to the floor.

Sam and Will and Rob are so blackout drunk that Brandon and Tim don't have to worry about anyone noticing that they've disappeared pretty much permanently.

And the wet wind whistles narrowly over them, cool and reassuring, carrying into the night the sound of Brandon saying Tim's name over and over, and when he comes.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Talking Heads song "This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody)":
> 
> _The less we say about it the better  
>  Make it up as we go along  
> Head in the clouds, feet on the ground  
> I know - I know nothing's wrong _


End file.
